Circle
by Jessa4865
Summary: A post-ep for S13 premiere. Had to fix things. COMPLETE! EO
1. Chapter 1

Circle  
>Jezyk<br>Disclaimer: Clearly not mine or this whole mess never would have happened.  
>Spoilers: Haven't watched the show in nearly a year, so you're prolly safe, though from what I can tell, my guesses about the events of the S13 premiere were close enough.<p>

AN: So anyway, I tried to resist, I did, but last night I was trying to go to sleep and I was overwhelmed with the need to fix it. Like couldn't sleep MUST FIX THIS MESS thoughts. Therefore, stepping out of the Deep universe for a bit to try.

Part One

He'd tried. Really he had. He'd been tolerant. He'd been polite. He'd been waiting for her to appear to accept him, maybe even extend an olive branch. If there was one thing Nick Amaro knew how to be, it was patient.

The last straw came one morning when his phone rang as he was making his way across the squad room to his desk. He needed a pen, to jot down a note, and so he grabbed the first one he saw. It wasn't like anyone was using it anyway. The damn desk had been empty for months, serving no more purpose than somewhere for his partner to stare with a slightly bewildered expression that immediately turned into a frown when he'd inevitably ask if she was ok.

Distracted by his note, he wasn't thinking about the damn pen that had ten dozen identical to it in the supply closet. He stuffed the pen in his shirt pocket and continued on his way.

He recognized the odd sensation of eyes on him and looked up to find her staring. Rather than the disoriented grimace or slightly distrustful stare he was used to from her, it was anger that radiated across the space between them. He nearly rolled his eyes at her, but resisted simply because it would only incur her wrath, wrath, rumor had it, that she'd caught from her partner.

He sighed instead. "What?"

Her eyes narrowed as though he ought to have anticipated the answer, as though she wasn't perpetually pissed off at his existence.

Her jaw was clenched when she answered, her voice coming out in a low growl. "Put it back."

He looked around, hoping something would jump out at him as being so obviously out of place as to be the cause for her concern. Nothing. Nada. He was a career detective and still didn't have the first clue what the problem was. Such was life working with Olivia Benson. At least, it was his experience. The other guys in the squad got along with her most of the time, but he'd seen them face a suddenly irate woman for no obvious reason more than once. It seemed, however, that he faced the brunt of her anger.

Ever since that one time he'd referred to himself as her partner to someone on the phone… He only made that mistake once.

Finally, he shook his head and looked at her. "I'm sorry, what's the problem?" Nearly half of his statements to the woman were prefaced with an apology in the hopes of keeping himself alive.

She stood up, stalking across the squad room, reaching out and grabbing the pen from his shirt pocket, damn near ripping the fabric in her haste to remove it. "Don't take things that aren't yours." She stormed back to her desk, reaching over and putting the purloined pen back on the empty desk facing hers. Then she sat there, staring at the pencil cup with four half-used, dust-covered pens and snarling while bitching about fuckers touching things that didn't belong to them.

And then he did roll his eyes. Of course it was the damn pen that had set her off. The damn pen her ex-partner had abandoned on his ex-desk at his ex-job. The way Benson revered the man's desk, Nick would have expected he could walk on water, which according to what Nick had been able to dig up, was hardly the case.

Her respect for Stabler's desk, not to mention his title as her partner despite the intervening months, was not only ridiculously sentimental, it was preposterous given her feelings for the man. Nick had asked about him once, a few weeks after he'd started when it seemed possible the Stabler might be returning and he was trying to get an idea of what his coworker might be like. He'd thought that Benson would have had something nice to say about the man. Nice or mean or, really, anything.

All he'd gotten was dead silence. Dead silence that lasted the entire day. Well, dead silence and the distinct impression that Benson was going to cry. Luckily, she hadn't. Unfortunately, she hadn't shown such a softness again.

But Nick had had it with her being a bitch toward him. He hadn't done anything to deserve her moods and was sick of it. They were there to work and they could hardly work together when she absolutely despised him, ignored everything he said, and resented everything he did.

Taking a deep breath, he stood and crossed back to her side of the room. Then, with a confidence he hoped he was feigning convincingly, he pulled out the empty chair and took a seat facing her.

She looked up, her face an unfamiliar mix of acceptance and pleasure and mirth for a shortest of moments before the rage returned. The veins in her neck stood out as the steam gathered for her to release. Somehow, she'd been expecting someone else.

He cut her off before she could get started. "Explain to me right now why you've got a shrine here to this guy. Who the hell is he to you?"

She stared back, either caught off-guard by the question or simply too pissed off to form words.

"He quit. He wasn't fired. He didn't die. He shot a damn kid and he quit. What the hell is the deal?"

More silence. More of the angry glare he'd come to recognize as Benson's only expression.

"If you just answer me, I'll leave it alone. I won't touch his shit. I won't even talk to you unless I have to." God knew there were plenty of things he didn't want to discuss with people. He just wanted her to throw him a bone. Benson had a reputation for being a good cop, for being fair, for playing well with others. He was determined to know just what the hell had caused her to change so completely – and he damn sure wanted to know if it had something to do with him, in case there was something he needed to clear up.

He watched her throat work to swallow and, though her face didn't change at all, he decided she was seriously considering his offer.

"How long were you guys partners?" Nick knew they had to have known each other pretty well in order for Benson to have such a strong reaction to his departure, but then again, she hardly seemed to like the man what with the way she hated everyone who dared mention his name.

She looked away for a moment, her face slightly less tense when she turned back. "Fifteen years."

Wow. Ok. Well, that helped. Not only had she answered him civilly, the answer itself helped shed light on the situation. To have been partners for so long revealed that she didn't despise the man. Something had happened. Nick just needed to wheedle enough information out of her that he'd know how not to step in it every five minutes.

"Fifteen years, that's – well – so what was he like? I heard he had a temper, but everyone said it was a clean shoot." It wasn't really that everyone had said it; he'd checked himself, he just didn't think it would be a good idea to mention that he'd gone poking into her ex-partner's background.

Her teeth clenched and Nick feared he'd gotten all he was getting out of her for the day. Then she sighed and leaned forward, letting him hear the anger in her voice while keeping it low enough that no one else would overhear. "You want to know about Stabler? He's a fucking prick. A selfish bastard." Despite the way she spit the words at him, her face softened, looking for the second time like she might cry. "Oh, and he doesn't know how to use the motherfucking telephone."

And then she really was done, standing up and walking away while Nick was still trying to process her words.

He had to do something. In a moment of weakness, she'd dropped the act that it was the entire universe she hated. It had been Stabler who'd let her down, but she was taking it out on the world. Because after fifteen years of working with her, the son of a bitch wouldn't fucking call her.

Nick had every intention of remedying that, if only so she could take her anger out on the fucker who deserved it rather than himself. As he raised his hand to knock on the door, however, he feared that in his attempt to not be involved in shit at work, he might be walking into different shit at work. His plan could also backfire quite spectacularly, resulting in Benson hating him more than she already did.

Oh well, he figured he didn't have anything to lose. She already hated him, might as well give her a legitimate reason.

Expecting the physically imposing Stabler, Nick was caught off guard by the petite blonde who pulled the door open.

She eyed him uncertainly through the screen door, offering a smile. "Can I help you?"

He stuffed his hands in his pockets, trying to scrounge up more fake confidence. "Detective Amaro. I'm looking for Elliot Stabler."

A flash of concern appeared on her face, disappearing when a child called for her. "Be right there, Eli," she said, turning her head toward the voice. With her attention back on Nick, her eyes narrowed in distress. "Is he in trouble?"

"No, ma'am," he shook his head, thinking somehow that would make the lie more convincing. Stabler wasn't in trouble, at least not with the establishment, but if Benson ever got her hands on him, well, he'd definitely be in trouble then.

She folded her arms over her chest, her frown letting Nick know in what regard she held the NYPD. "What is this about exactly?"

Giving up on the friendly smile that worked on most women, Nick opted for the truth. "It's regarding Detective Benson. I need to speak with him."

The blonde's anger faded, worry taking over her features. "Is Olivia ok?"

For a moment, he was confused, wondering why the woman would care about the ex-partner of her husband when it had been so obvious there was no love lost between the partners. But then he remembered that they'd been together for fifteen years. The two women must have known each other in passing if nothing else.

"She's fine," he lied, decorum demanding that he protect a fellow cop even if they weren't particularly friends. "Is Elliot here?"

Finally, she shook her head. "No, he moved out." She sighed, repeating the information she probably felt was no one's business, certainly not his. "We're getting divorced. I can give you his address if it's important." She disappeared for a few minutes after he nodded, coming back with the information scribbled on a sticky note. "I don't know if he's home, but that's where he's staying. Don't tell him I gave it to you."

She called out again, as Nick was making his way down the front steps. "Tell Olivia I said hi."

He turned with a friendly nod, feeding the woman one more lie. Like hell he was going to mention any of this to Benson. She'd fucking kill him.

Another knock on another door left him facing the same doubts that he was doing the right thing. Doing the wrong thing, despite the best of intentions, was still the wrong thing. He really did want to help Benson, but he had to admit he was mostly trying to take care of himself, attempting to make the workplace a bit more comfortable. And if he were being truly honest, helping the woman who for all intents and purposes was a complete stranger wasn't really that high on his list.

By the time he could hear the lock turning on the door, Nick wished he hadn't acted on his instinct. With the reactions of the people Stabler had left in his wake, he wasn't sure he ever wanted to meet the man.

But there he was, taller and wider and heavier and considerably more furious than Nick had ever wanted to be. He looked exactly like Nick had imagined the pissed-off ex-cop and ex-Marine would look – imposing with his thick muscles and cold glare, a stained wife-beater highlighting the arms Nick was fairly certain were wider than his head, worn, ripped jeans sagging from lack of washing, thick stubble on his chin revealing that he had no reason whatsoever to shave, the shadow of dark hair on his head proving that he did still believe in shaving something. Nick refused to give into the urge to step back and give the other man space, but damn it, he thought about it. He cleared his throat and reminded himself that Stabler had been a cop, not a criminal who was liable to kill him for the sheer joy of it.

"Detective Amaro. Are you Stabler?"

"No," he barked, moving to shut the door in Nick's face. "Fuck off."

Then the courage that he'd been lacking reappeared and he shoved his black loafer in the doorjamb. "It's about Benson."

The icy blue eyes turned sharper, like daggers threatening. "Is she ok?"

Ha. He wanted to pat himself on the back. There was something there, as evidenced by Benson's hatred and Stabler's concern. Unfortunately, the jury was still out as to whether or not he'd wind up with a black eye for his efforts. Stabler didn't look much like he'd appreciate someone being nosy.

Nick shrugged. "Depends on your definition of ok." When Stabler's eyes narrowed, Nick decided he wanted to try to avoid a black eye if at all possible. "Physically, she's fine."

"What the fuck do you want then?"

Though he was giving every indication that he didn't give a shit, Stabler was still listening and Nick knew he wouldn't think twice of slamming the door in his face if he truly wasn't interested in what Nick had to say. Nick had a rapt audience, appearances aside, in Stabler at the mention of Benson.

Such was the problem with opening a can of worms. Now it was open, and he had no choice except to keep at it. He took a deep breath, telling himself that the sooner he got into it, the sooner he could get back out of it.

"Look, the last fucking thing I want is to get involved, but I am involved and I want out. You need to call her."

Stabler stared blankly at him, slowly processing the words, his glare turning dark again. "Who the fuck are you?" His eyes moved down, sizing Nick up carefully. "No way you're dating her. So what, you're her new partner?"

A wry snort fell out of his mouth before he could stop it. "Fuck no. I work with her, but that's not a word you use around her."

As he watched Stabler's jaw twitch, Nick understood suddenly that it wasn't Benson not wanting a partner. She didn't want a new partner. She still believed she had one, thus the reason for protecting his damn pens. And if the bastard would just call her the fuck back, she might get over the slight of having been abandoned.

Nick was as furious as Benson now, realizing that it was thoughtlessness, pure and simple, that had caused so much trouble. But he didn't know how to fix it besides dragging Stabler physically into the precinct to face Benson. Guessing that would require a lot of work, he decided to hold that option in reserve.

Stabler's attention was waning. "Yeah, whatever, I'll call her."

"Anyone ever tell you you're not a good liar?"

"Anyone ever tell you to mind your own business?"

The two men stared at one another, neither one willing to give.

But if Stabler had been willing to fold, Nick wouldn't have been in the damn situation in the first place. With a sigh he shook his head. "Give me a fucking break, would you? You were partners for fifteen years. How the fuck would you feel if she bailed on you and refused to call and you had no idea how she was?"

Stabler's voice lowered to a growl, giving a fair warning to anyone within earshot. "I did work with her for fifteen years. Don't presume you know her better than I do."

"I don't have to know her at all to know she's been a royal bitch since you left."

Stabler leaned down, his desire to intimidate his way into winning an argument showing. "Don't you dare call her a bitch."

"Oh, you give a shit about her all of a sudden?"

Before he knew what had happened, Nick was off his feet, fighting for breath around hand that Stabler had clamped around his neck. "Of course I give a fucking shit about her, she's my goddamned partner, you son of a bitch!" He gained a bit of control over himself, releasing his hold on Nick's neck and backing up a step.

Nick's eyes narrowed, hoping that by having struck a nerve he was finally on the home stretch. "You're not her partner anymore. You're the asshole who won't return her phone calls."

The ego was gone that fast, deflated like a popped balloon, as Stabler backed into his apartment. His shoulders drooped, his expression was crushed, his eyes defeated. He was shaking his head from side to side, but it wasn't clear if he was disagreeing with Nick or disagreeing with his own behavior.

When he spoke again, his voice was soft and unsure. "No, this is better for her. I'm thinking of her."

"How? How is refusing to talk to her benefitting her at all?"

"Because I- it-" His instinct was obviously to argue, but he didn't have anything to say. Maybe he'd thought it was for the best, but he certainly appeared that he hadn't thought his little plan through.

Feeling certain that he'd made his point, Nick nodded, stepping back and straightening his tie. "Maybe you should think about that, huh? Maybe give her a call?"

Stabler stared back, his expression morphing into one of wonder and shock. Apparently he'd never considered that his choice would hurt her. His eyes moved restlessly, searching the space before him as though it might give him an answer.

By the time Nick turned away, Stabler was patting his pockets for his phone.

Satisfied that he'd done his part, gotten the ball rolling, he returned to his car with a smile.


	2. Chapter 2

Part Two

He'd lost all track of time. He didn't have to get up in the morning. He didn't have to go to sleep at night. He didn't have anywhere to be. He didn't have to answer to anyone.

His desolation had been so complete that after a few weeks his god damned wife had told him to knock it off or get the fuck out.

The last two functional things he'd done were signing a lease and digging out the old signed divorce papers for Kathy to deal with. After that, well, he'd been busy. There was whiskey to drink, blinds to close, workouts to ignore, showers to skip. He couldn't sleep, barely ate, didn't do a damn thing. He hadn't unpacked what little shit he'd bothered to bring with him. Fuck, his car had probably been towed to impound after accumulating several weeks' worth of parking tickets.

He only answered the door because it was, on rare occasions, pizza he'd forgotten he'd ordered.

And now, some nosy fucking kiss-up had rained on his fucking parade of despair. At the rate he'd been going, he estimated he could have his liver destroyed in just a few more weeks and then he could die in fucking peace without having to spend any more time lying on the loveseat with his legs hanging over the too-short edge and staring at the ceiling wondering why the fuck he couldn't just stop fucking breathing.

He'd never understood depression. He'd never understood how people could be so selfish that they sat around all day and contemplated their own feelings. He'd never understood why they didn't just get the hell over themselves and do something productive.

Well, he fucking understood now. The only reason he hadn't killed himself was that he was too damn tired to bother. Tired, but awake. Always awake. Always slightly sick to his stomach. Always certain the only thing he could do was pour more alcohol in his belly to try to numb it.

He was worthless. Completely fucking worthless.

His family was better off without him. If Kathy or the kids saw him, fuck, they'd have him committed. There was already enough crazy in the family tree; he didn't want to be another skeleton in the closet, another relative no one dared mention at the dinner table.

And Olivia, Jesus. How she hadn't realized he'd been dead weight since they day they'd met was beyond him. Until she'd been partnered up with him, she'd been the precinct's rising star. She'd been so young and energetic and capable. She would have made captain in fifteen years. Instead, it had only taken a few years for Elliot's reputation and attitude to rub off on her, leaving her with so many reprimands in her jacket that she'd likely never see another promotion.

Fuck, he couldn't fucking stand himself. He'd fucking ruined her career, her whole life. The first chance she'd had in all those years to get away from her loser partner and she spent it calling him. He figured she would eventually give up, realize the albatross was gone, and move on. She'd never have to clean up another one of his messes again. She'd see how lucky she actually was.

And then it happened.

She stopped calling.

The bastard at the door had been wrong. Olivia didn't give up. If she wanted to talk to him, she would have kept trying.

Still though, the guy's, whatever the fuck his name was, Elliot hadn't been listening, his concern seemed genuine. Any distress Olivia was in wasn't due to him not calling. Unless… Fuck. He owed her money. God knew, he'd begged a few twenties off her more than once. Of course he was such an idiot that he'd run off without paying her back.

Moving with more purpose than he had in a long time, not that that was saying much, he started looking for his phone. If he owed her money, he needed to pay her back. Then at least he'd know for certain his absence wouldn't bother her in the slightest.

The search for his phone took forever. He had no idea how long, but it had been bright enough when the jackass came to the door that Elliot had been wincing at the way the blinds didn't block enough light and he'd had to find a lamp and plug it in long before he found the phone. It was under the couch, the battery weeks dead, leaving Elliot to stare at the black screen as another wave of crushing despair hit him.

First of all, he couldn't call her because he couldn't be sure he'd even packed the charger when he moved out of the house.

Second, and far, far, far worse, he realized he'd miscalculated, not that thinking something stupid was much of a stretch for an asshole like him. He had no idea if Olivia had stopped calling. Maybe she had, he promised himself, but it was far more likely the damn battery had given out, leaving her no way to reach him. She wouldn't call the house; she'd never show up on Kathy's doorstep to ask for him. She'd always believed his home was sacred and off-limits and she would only ever invade it by way of the phone. Hell, he'd always been glad for it, sparing him from having his wife ever see that he loved his partner. And Kathy would have known. One second and she would have seen the longing and desire and reverence in his eyes when he looked at Olivia Benson.

Always easier to ignore it, to pretend it wasn't there, to stay married. Being single and near her had only made it so much harder to remember that she was out of his league.

Damn it. He'd intended to call her, only to arrange to give back whatever he owed her. Rather, he'd intended to sit there and stare at the phone and imagine calling her and hearing her sultry voice and pretending there was something more than pity in any kind word she offered him. And even that pathetic little anticipation of something he might have found some modicum of enjoyment in had gotten his hopes up. He'd wanted to do it. He'd finally had a legitimate excuse to call the only reason he'd gotten out of bed for years and even that little bit had to be snatched away from him.

He didn't deserve that much. He wasn't worthy of it.

And still, the idea that he owed her money bugged him. He had to resolve that. Maybe he could mail a check to the precinct. Except it would probably bounce. And he didn't know where his checkbook was anyway.

He flopped back against the couch and squeezed his eyes closed. He wanted to cry. The letdown of not being able to hear her voice was just too much. He didn't have anything left to lose. The universe teasing him was just fucking wrong.

Grabbing the bottle of whiskey on the table, he threw back a sip, choking on the taste, gagging as his stomach rolled in complaint. But he had to get it down. He was far too sober. He needed to pass out, to forget that he couldn't hear her, that he couldn't see her.

Oh, fuck, to see her.

He wanted it so badly it hurt. To think of her beautiful face, to think of never seeing it again, it brought the tears to the surface.

It only took a few sips before his thoughts blurred and the whiskey started whispering to him.

The whiskey was fucking brilliant.

He jumped up, racing to the door, pulling it open before he realized what he was doing. Yes, the perfect way to get her money back to her would be to go to her apartment. He could pretend he was there to pay her back, give her cash so she wouldn't have to worry that he'd given her a bad check, and he'd have an excuse to see her one last time. He could drink in her face and her voice and her smell and her presence.

Maybe knowing it was the last time he would ever see her would keep him from taking her for granted as he had so many times.

But if he was going to see her, if he was going to set foot in her building, he couldn't go the way he looked. After so long without a shower, he'd grown almost immune to how bad he smelled, but sometimes when he'd roll over to stare at the wall rather than the ceiling for a few minutes, he'd catch a whiff that turned his stomach. Not to mention there were stains from pizza and beer and whatever else he'd managed to drop on his shirt. He didn't care how awful he looked, but he couldn't embarrass Olivia. He didn't want to give her yet another reason to wish she'd never met him.

Disappointed that he had to wait, he sighed and headed for the bathroom. Shower, shave, clean clothes. He could look presentable, even if he was really a fuck-up. At least he wouldn't be repulsive when she saw him. Not physically anyway.

When his shower was finished, he stood before the mirror to shave. He caught his reflection, trying to remember what the fuck had possessed him to shave his head. He didn't have enough hair that he had the luxury to get rid of what was there. His eyes were bloodshot and purple circles beneath them revealed his lack of sleep. She'd know. She was a fucking detective. Even with the stench of alcohol and sweat washed off him, one look at his eyes and she'd know he was drinking.

He thought about changing his plans. Skip the visit. Forget her. Go back to his original idea.

Then his eyes fell on his razor and he knew using it would be so much easier than giving up the idea of seeing her one last time. Fuck being damned to hell for all eternity because he killed himself. He was already there.

Disgusted with himself, he hurried through his shave before he had time to dwell. He couldn't kill himself until after he paid her back. Wouldn't be fair. Once he'd given her whatever he owed her, once he'd seen her just one more time, then he could come home and decide what to do with himself.

Had he been in a better state of mind, he would have laughed at his behavior when he went to get dressed. He pulled on a pair of jeans, clean ones without holes, but then he thought better of it and took them off. He should wear a suit, she was used to him in suits, he'd always worn a suit around her. Since his abrupt retirement, he'd hardly bothered taking care of his clothes, and while he dug through a box of random pieces of clothing, he realized he might need to iron. Except he didn't have an iron. Or a suit. Another thing he'd left behind in a life that wasn't his anymore.

Pulling the jeans back on, he told himself casual clothes made more sense. He wasn't working. She knew he wasn't working. If he showed up at her house in a suit, she'd suspect something. Who the fuck knew what she'd suspect, but it'd be something. He moved on to looking for a shirt. It was stupid, not to mention futile, to try to look attractive in some way. Still, he found himself recalling a long ago day when she'd mentioned liking one of his shirts. It had been torn in a fight, he remembered that much, but the shirt itself? No, he'd been too busy staring at the beautiful woman to remember what the hell color his shirt had been. Finally he found a dark green shirt that only looked like he'd rolled around in it rather than slept in it for a week and so he pulled it on.

He tried not to care anymore. It really didn't matter what the fuck he wore. She wasn't going to like it. She wasn't going to notice it. She wasn't going to forgive him for dragging her down for all those years. What the fuck difference did it make what he wore? She just wanted her damn money back, then she'd be happy to forget having known him.

Ready as he could possibly be in his current mental state, Elliot returned to the living room. As much as he hated the couch, and the room, he hadn't left in weeks, he was afraid to leave. The devil he knew was so…familiar. The bottle of whiskey remained where he'd left it, sticking out from between the cushions, lid half unscrewed, fairly begging for him to take a swallow.

He lifted it, feeling the weight of the glass in his hands, removing the top and lifting it to his nose. It disgusted him and yet, somehow, attracted him. He wanted to take a swig, just one more, just to take the edge off. Maybe more than one. He hadn't been sober in a long fucking time and he suddenly questioned whether the night he was choosing to show up at Olivia's apartment uninvited after disappearing on her and refusing to return the mercy calls she'd placed to him was the best night to attempt sobriety.

No, probably not. But he already looked like hell and was pathetic as fuck and he didn't need Olivia to have to play good Samaritan and demand he sleep it off on her couch. Oh fuck no.

He sniffed the bottle again, pulling the wretched scent deeply into his lungs as though that might help tide him over until he got home and could finish the bottle. Maybe he could stop on the way home and get himself a fresh one.

He knew he'd need it.

Stupid. He was stupid. He was a really fucking stupid fuckhead. He knew it was true and kept repeating it to himself as he trudged toward her apartment. He stopped at the ATM, withdrawing more cash than he felt safe carrying at night now that he didn't have a gun and a badge, deciding that if someone mugged him, he'd simply ask them to kill him. Spare him the trauma of having to face the woman who had been his world and the trouble of having to off himself when he got home and realized that without her, his life was exactly as empty and meaningless and horrible as he'd feared it would be without her light.

He didn't remember his feet ever having been so heavy.

Apparently it was possible to get completely out of shape in a terribly short amount of time. Not only were his feet heavy, but his legs were aching by the time he got halfway there. Another block and he added nausea to the list of acute health problems. His head was pounding too.

It was only the idea of seeing Olivia that kept him moving forward, long after he decided she'd most likely rather lose her money than have to face him again.

It didn't matter though, not anymore. The decision had been made. He just had to do it and then he could go home and get drunk and contemplate cutting his wrists until he got so drunk he forgot he wanted to die.

And then, somehow, he was at her door. He couldn't remember half the walk. He couldn't feel his feet. He was only aware of two things – his heart was pounding harder than it ever had and he was only a few feet away from her. Again. Finally.

He raised his hand and knocked three times, stuffing his hand back into his pocket to squeeze his fist around the once crisp bills. They were the reason he was there. It was all about the money, paying her back what she'd loaned him. It didn't have anything to do with the fact that he couldn't bear the thought of living without her in his life. It didn't have anything to do with the fact that he was the loneliest fucker to ever live.

As he waited in silence, he realized he might not be so close to her after all. She might not be home. She could be working. She could be out on a date. Hell, she could be at the damn grocery store.

Forget his razor, he was pretty damn sure it would kill him not to see her after all the work he'd put into it.

Just when he thought he'd collapse under the weight of the letdown, the door pulled open. Just a crack at first, letting her identify him while the chain lock was still fastened. She immediately pushed it closed and he waited, praying to hear the sound of the lock sliding open, fearing that had simply been her answer.

It opened again a moment later. He wanted to scream in relief. He wanted to drink in the sight of her.

But he was afraid to look. He was afraid to see disinterest, disappointment, dislike in her eyes. He was afraid he'd see nothing at all, complete indifference.

He felt like an ass, knowing it had all been a huge mistake. Pulling his hand from his pocket, he held the wad of bills out to her. Anything to get it done, get it over with, get back home to his bottle.

"I owed you something, right? How much was it?" He didn't really care. He wanted to drop the cash there and run away. He just didn't have the energy to move.

He waited. For an answer. For her to take the money. For her to tell him to leave.

It took forever.

And rather than the words he expected, her answer was her open hand cracking against his face.


	3. Chapter 3

Part Three

The fucking audacity of that son of a bitch.

Good thing her gun was lying on her kitchen counter. Had it been at her waist where it usually was, the asshole would have had a hole in his head. Right between his pretty blue eyes.

It took her a minute to think, to wrap her brain around the fact that the first thing he'd had to say to her in weeks, months, was about money. He thought she'd been calling him about money. The fucker hadn't bother to listen to her messages, hadn't bothered to see why she was calling.

Even worse, it revealed what he thought of her. Her partner of fifteen years had more or less been forced into retirement following a clean fucking shoot and he assumed her only reason for calling him was to ask for her money back.

Her palm itched with a desire to go get her gun and shoot him.

Her palm itched to slap him again.

As she stood there, trying to decide whether or not to slam the door in his face from his insult, her cop instincts took over. She saw the way his clothes hung loosely, the way his shirt seemed to be begging for an iron, the way his head was lowered, the way he had yet to look at her face, the way his whole body seemed to be collapsing inward like he was empty inside, the way his hand shook with the proffered cash, the way his chin was trembling.

Jesus. Suddenly she couldn't even be sure it was Elliot Stabler before her. She'd sooner believe he had a twin brother he'd never mentioned than that this was the same man she'd known so well.

And still, the anger, the hurt, the betrayal, demanded release.

"You honestly fucking thought I was calling you about you owing me money? What the fuck is wrong with you?"

His head began to shake, a gesture that initially seemed to be in response to her question but quickly revealed that he wasn't even listening. As his head turned back and forth, he started to back up, his hand dropping the twenties he'd been holding as it fell back to his side. She had to lean forward to hear his soft mutter.

"This was a huge mistake. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come here."

When he turned to leave, she saw the redness on his cheeks, the tiny, fresh cut on his chin. He'd shaved. He'd actually shaved just to come see her. She stepped forward, catching the scent of soap in his wake, the scent of soap that hadn't yet been overtaken by the smell of him. Not that he usually smelled bad or dirty; he usually just smelled like him.

Fuck. He was in the worst state she'd even seen and he'd bothered to take a shower and get shaved to come see her, to give her back the money he mistakenly thought he owed her because he hadn't believed she would have called him for any other reason. Where the hell was the huge ass ego he'd always had?

Realizing that wherever it was, it was long gone, and that under the circumstances, her slap would do as much damage to his psyche as a bullet would have done to his body, she knew she couldn't let him leave. Fucking hell, it had already taken forever and a million phone calls to get him to show up in the first place – he'd never come back if he thought she'd rejected him.

Luckily he was barely moving and one step forward was all it took for her to reach him. She was still pissed as hell at him, but seeing him so despondent made it easy to prioritize. She had to take care of him first. Once he was back together, then she could lay into him for the way he'd acted. Otherwise, the man would disappear and she'd never get the chance to do either.

Unused to dealing with Elliot like this, she had no idea of how to help him. She had no idea of what he needed. So she did the only thing she could think of, the only thing she wanted to do more than she'd even wanted to slap him.

She reached for him.

She stretched her arms up, grabbing his shoulders, pulling him into her as her arms wrapped around his neck. There was no resistance, no attempt to avoid her. But there was no response either. He just stood there, stiff and motionless, letting her hug him. She kind of wanted to smack him again. But more than that, she wanted to feel him return the embrace, wanted to feel his arms around her.

She'd never imagined anything would break him. She'd always thought that Elliot Stabler's strength was far greater than anything the universe could throw at him. But she'd been wrong. So very, very wrong. No, he hadn't been nearly so fucking strong as she'd thought, as she'd imagined him to be. He was fragile, the huge ego had been fake.

It struck her then exactly why they'd gotten along so well. They were the same in that regard. They pretended to be so strong, so impermeable, that nothing could stop them, when they really were terrified that someone would see how very full of self-doubt they were. They'd gravitated toward the strength they'd seen in one another, trusting their partner to protect them.

Now that she saw his weakness, she realized she could reveal her own.

She squeezed him tighter, turning her face into his, letting her whisper fall directly into his ear.

"Elliot, please!"

He was her biggest weakness. She needed him so damn badly that it had reduced her world to ruins when he'd cut her out of his life.

Her tearful plea prompted a response from him. His arms moved up, curling around her back, his hands tentatively resting on her shoulder blades. It was something, but it wasn't enough. She leaned in closer, giving him no choice but to support her body as she fell into him. She knew he wouldn't drop her. They'd been partners too long for her to question that.

Finally, his arms tightened, his hands curling, his fingers digging into her back.

Finally, a real fucking hug. She might never let him go.

They were both shaking, either from the emotional heft or from the sheer need for each other. Her arms hurt from holding him so tightly and yet she couldn't stand the thought of releasing him. Tears were streaming down her face, but she feared letting him see them. God only knew how badly he'd react to knowing he'd hurt her.

It seemed doomed that he'd find out though, because he was loosening his hold, relaxing his hands from where they'd gouged into her back. She couldn't let go. She just couldn't. Wherever he was going to go, he'd go there with her hanging from his neck. If only she'd had her handcuffs on her.

But Elliot's attempts to get away were limited. He wasn't trying to get far away, apparently, only enough so that his lips could reach her face, brushing against her forehead and temple and cheek.

She'd dreamed of such a moment. Fifteen years of fantasies of the man finally touching her with sexual intent couldn't compare to the feeling of his lips caressing her skin, of his body flush against hers, of his hot breath moving toward her lips.

And though it might otherwise have been the paramount moment of her entire existence, she had to put a stop to it.

Because it wasn't right.

Nothing about the man said that he was ok.

Nothing about the man said sobriety, either.

Even as his lips moved towards hers, she had to think past her own desires and feel the desperation wafting from him. She tightened her arms, tucking her head past his, giving him no choice but to stop trying to kiss her. The tension returned to him immediately, and she could almost hear the way he was going to try to explain away his actions. She couldn't listen to it. She couldn't take it. She was falling apart too, damn it.

When he was still, she released him, moving her hands to grasp the sides of his face and forcing him to look her in the eyes. She wasn't going to let him be ashamed of the fire that had burned between them for so long. He wasn't wrong. It might be the wrong time, but it wasn't the wrong idea and she didn't want him to get that in his head.

"Not like this, Elliot, ok?" She looked at his eyes, seeing the redness, the puffiness, the dark circles marring his face revealing that he'd been drinking his way through the last few months. Rather than crying out in pain at what he was doing to himself, she bit it back and held his stare, hoping that all the love she felt for him would somehow reach him. "I'm not saying no. I'm just saying not like this."

He stared back, his eyes pleading with her to save him, from the world, from the pain, from himself, even if only for a few minutes of pleasure.

Her fingers stroked his cheeks as she wished she had the ability to absorb all the misery he was feeling. She lightly touched the red mark her palm had left on his face, wincing at her thoughtlessness. She'd been so consumed with anger at him for causing her pain she hadn't thought to wonder what might have driven him to be so thoughtless.

Of course he was suffering. He was suffering from having had to shoot that girl. He was suffering from having to defend his justifiable actions. He was suffering from having lost his long-running battle of wills with Tucker. He was suffering from having to give up the career that defined him.

She'd been terribly thoughtless, convinced that she was the one being screwed over, certain that Elliot was trying to punish her for something.

Damn it. He just stared back at her, so lost, so helpless, that she wanted to make it better. She wanted to hold him and kiss him and love him until he forgot that he was hurting. But doing so would only postpone the moment when he realized reality was still there. She couldn't take advantage of him. She had to help him heal, then if he was still so inclined, she'd be more than happy to assuage his loss physically.

Plus, she reminded herself, sleeping with a married man who had strong feelings regarding faithfulness, well, in the end that would probably only result in him cutting off contact with her again. She'd never survive that.

Afraid to let go of him completely, afraid he'd run away, afraid it was just a dream, she grabbed his hand and pulled him into her apartment. He was uncharacteristically compliant as she prodded him toward the couch.

"How long has it been since you've eaten a decent meal?" She looked him up and down. "Sit down." She waited until he did so, wondering how his wife had let him get this bad. "Hasn't Kathy been feeding you? You're too thin, Elliot."

He just stared up at her, blinking slowly and shrugging, his weak whisper barely audible. "We split up. She told me to leave."

Oh fuck.

That did not help matters any. It was just one more blow that he obviously couldn't withstand.

"I'm going to make you something and you're going to eat it, ok?"

He nodded, his hand still grasping hers tightly.

"I'm just going to the kitchen. I'll be right back."

But he didn't let go, simply stared up at her. "I'm sorry."

Her instinct told her to say it was ok, to tell him not to worry about it, to let it go. But she couldn't do that. She would never be able to forget the way he'd hurt her. If they didn't talk about it, the betrayal would fester and eat away at their friendship, what was left of it.

"We'll talk about it later. When you're twenty-four hours sober. Until then, you need food."

He nodded slowly, his eyes still pained, his fear that she wasn't coming back still obvious.

She shook her head at him, unable to help the irritated tone that came through in her voice. "I'm not the one who disappeared this time, El."

He let her go.

Knowing that how long she took was far more important than how great the food was, she slapped together a sandwich as fast as she could and returned to the living room with it and a bottle of water. She offered them to him, fully expecting the response she got at the water.

"You got anything stronger?"

"The last thing you need right now is more alcohol."

He took the bottle with a loud sigh and dropped it on the cushion next to him. "The last thing I need right now is to be sober."

She let him eat his food, the half of the sandwich he'd managed to pick at until it was nearly gone, in peace. As soon as he was finished with it, she broke the silence.

"I understand that you're in a bad place right now, but I swear to fucking God, Elliot, you ever do this to me again, I will find you and I will kill you, is that clear?" She waited for him to reluctantly meet her eyes, her face revealing that she wasn't kidding.

He looked away, his eyes slowly moving over the room rather than meet hers.

He wasn't listening.

Or maybe he was listening, but he wasn't hearing her.

She shifted closer, her hand gripping his forearm. "I'm not joking, Elliot. I'm so pissed off I don't even know what the fuck to scream at you first."

He nodded then, his eyes dropping to his lap. He swallowed hard and she watched as the muscles in his face and jaw worked.

Fuck. He was trying not to cry.

Son of a fucking bitch.

"I'm sorry. I'm really sorry." He stood up, making her jump from the unexpected movement. "I shouldn't have come here. I shouldn't have kissed you. I swear, I don't know what I was thinking. I-I-I" His tears broke through, mercifully quieting his stutter.

"Oh Jesus fucking Christ, Elliot!" She jumped in front of him, blocking his path to the door. "I'm not mad at you for kissing me and I'm sure as hell not mad at you for coming here. What the fuck is wrong with you? Seriously, what the hell are you thinking?"

He stared at her, stunned by her words, utter disbelief reflecting in his voice. "Then what are you mad at?"

She ran her hands over her face, wanting to scream in frustration, yet knowing that would only exacerbate the situation. When she looked back at him, she gave him the glare she gave perps. "Sit your ass down and stay there until I tell you to get up or I will hurt you." She waited a beat, trying to see if he would obey. "I'll hurt you, Elliot. Don't fucking mess with me."

He dropped back down in his seat.

Unwilling to chance that he might try to escape again, she perched herself on the coffee table in front of him. "I'm very angry with you. Not because you came here. Not because you kissed me. I'm angry that you left me. I'm angry that it took you this long to fucking come here." She looked down for a moment and realized there was no point in preserving her pride. "Hell, I'm fucking angry it took you this long to fucking kiss me."

She drew in a deep breath and continued, hoping her words were sinking in.

"But I'm angrier that you gave up. You. Elliot fucking Stabler just threw in the fucking towel and crawled away with his tail between his legs. You're better than that. You're stronger than that. You should have fought."

He looked at her, staring at her so long she wasn't sure he'd heard her. "There was no point." He shrugged. "What good was I? You're all better off without me."

And that, she knew, was the essence of it. The way he said the bullshit like it was actual fact revealed his conviction in it.

She sighed, knowing there was far more damage done to him than she could ever hope to undo in one night. Shaking her head, she leaned forward and placed her hands on his knees. "Ok, I don't really want to hurt you anymore. Now, I want to eviscerate Tucker. This," she motioned around the air to indicated both of them," all of this pain and anger and trouble and shit is all his fault and he did it for no good reason."

"It's not his fault I'm a fuck-up."

"You keep saying shit like that and I'll hit you again." Damn it, the man was fucking infuriating when he was depressed.

Well, he was fucking infuriating on a good day, but it was unbearable on a bad one.

"You're not a fuck-up. You did what you had to do. It was hard. It was a terrible thing, but you did it to save people. You would have been cleared. Tucker was just fucking around with you because he hates you, the same as he's always done. You've taken care of people your entire life and everyone else loves you for that."

He scoffed. "Like who? Kathy? Apparently not. The kids? They think I'm the worst father ever." His eyes darted away, showing her how embarrassed he was over his divorce and family situation.

"Like Cragen." She knew that would get his attention and, sure enough, his eyes snapped back to hers. "He thinks of you like a son."

"Yeah, right. Maybe like a son he disowned."

"He said so."

Elliot shook his head. "He just doesn't like Internal Affairs. I know he's glad to have me out of his hair."

"Fine then, forget Cragen. What about me?"

He stared at her, his eyes narrowing. "What about you?" For the briefest of moments, he sounded like himself, like the old Elliot Stabler, itching for a fight, daring her to say something just so he could argue the other side.

She nearly fucking hugged him again.

She nearly fucking slapped him again.

"What about me? You said it yourself once, El, you're the longest relationship I've ever had with a man, hell, with anyone besides my mother. You don't think I want you in my life? You don't think I need you? You don't think I love you?"

He looked at her, his eyes darting back and forth between hers, searching for a tell, a sign that she was being dishonest. He must have given up on finding one because he shrugged and looked away. "You're better off without me, you are, we both know it. I'm just so pathetic you don't want to tell me."

"No, Elliot. I'm not better off without you. I'm terrible. I'm miserable and I'm hurt and I'm lonely and I'm rotten to everyone because the only person I ever trusted enough to love turned his back on me."

He bit his lip and looked down, moisture welling up in his eyes. "I swear I never meant to hurt you." He glanced back up, allowing her to see the tears sliding down his cheeks. "I would never hurt you. I really thought-" His words cut off and he wiped at the tears, a rueful smile coming to his face. "Even trying not to hurt you I wind up hurting you. See? You're better off if I just stay the fuck away."

She surged forward, ignoring the fact that straddling him was hardly the way to stop him from thinking exactly the wrong thing, and wrapped her arms around his neck in a fierce hug. "Stop saying that."

His voice was muffled from the way he'd turned his face into her hair. "It's true."

She pulled back far enough to narrow her eyes at him. "I'm going to hug you every time you say something like that."

He cracked a smile, though it was quite short-lived. "That's probably not a good way to stop me."

Pulling him back into an embrace, she decided to accept that fact that he'd voluntarily hugged her back as a bit of progress. "You are loved, Elliot. You might not feel it right now and you might not believe it right now, but you are."

His voice was back to the nervous, tentative one. "What if I never believe it?"

She released him, looking back in his eyes and recognizing that he was hoping for an answer. She smiled softly and ran her hands down his arms. "Then at least believe that I'm here and I don't want you to go anywhere."

She hoped he understood what she was saying, but she didn't want to directly ask if he was suicidal in case the mere mention would give him an idea he hadn't already come up with on his own.

His eyes locked with hers and, in the surprise there, she could see immediately that he did get her meaning and he had thought of it.

She had his attention like she never had, though she knew part of that might be simply because she was still kneeling over his lap. "Don't you even think about leaving me behind, Elliot. You're my partner. I go where you go."

"We're not partners anymore."

That was where he was wrong. All he needed to do was come by the one-six or check in with anyone who worked there. "We'll always be partners. Always. Got it?"

His chin trembled again and his eyes were pained, but eventually he nodded.

She stood up and reached for his hand. "Come on, it's getting late."

His face, which she hadn't even realized had lightened some, fell as soon as he heard her words. But rather than argue, he nodded and slowly stood. He turned toward the door, keeping hold of her hand even as he walked in the opposite direction.

He stopped when he was as far as his arm would stretch and looked back at her. "Night." He let go of her hand then, his energy waning as he faced the door.

"Where do you think you're going?" She leaned her head to the side, smiling when she saw his confusion. He really thought she was throwing him out. "You're out of your fucking mind if you think I'm letting go of you any time soon."

He looked at her, at the way she kept hold of his hand even after he'd tried to release her. "I though you said-"

"I said it's late. I'm tired. I didn't say shit about you going anywhere." She watched his eyes as they moved to look at her couch. "No, Elliot, not a chance. I leave you out here to sleep and you won't be here in the morning."

"Oh."

She noticed that he didn't dispute her statement. They both knew a few hours alone and he'd start listening to the demons that lied about her not wanting him around. It would be harder for him to hear them if he was lying in her bed with her holding tight to him. Plus, she'd have access to her handcuffs in case he really tried to get away.

She led the way to her bed, kicking off her shoes and waiting for Elliot to do the same. He complied, nervous tension radiating off him as he lay on his back staring at the ceiling. She shook her head, lifted his arm from his side, and wrapped it around her shoulders as she snuggled into his chest.

"You're not getting away from me. Just give it up." She looked up at him for a moment, seeing his confusion at her actions. "If you really wanted a break from me, you never should have come back."

His arm tightened suddenly, almost crushing her. "I hated not seeing you."

She stretched her head up, using her hand to turn his face toward her, pressing her mouth gently to his, then pulling back and yawning. "I'm really tired. I don't think I've slept in months."

He put his other arm around her, rolling towards her slightly. "I haven't been sleeping either."

"Good night, El. Get some sleep. I'll be right here."

He smiled at her, allowing her to see how much he appreciated how she knew, had always known, exactly what he needed to hear. "You get some sleep too."

And for the first time in months, the pair found rest in the comfort they'd been missing, in each other, in their bond, in the circle of each other's arms.


End file.
